


Roses Are Red

by CalicoThunder



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: College/University AU, Fluff, M/M, Poet!Michael, Sleepy Nighttime, suuuuuper fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6440269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalicoThunder/pseuds/CalicoThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late at night, Michael needs to finish his midterm and Gavin will do anything to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses Are Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on here, I've got a few more in the works. Please make a boy like me happy and comment. Tell me how much you love or hate me and my writing, especially pertaining to these losers. :)

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

The old analog clock on the dresser was droning on in between seconds, background vocals to the wild solo in Michael's head. Its hands read one-fifteen in the morning, but that wasn't surprising. It was college, sleep was sacrificed more often than not by people in predicaments exactly like Michael's.

 _Hickory-dickory Dock,_  
_My teacher can go suck a cock_  
_It's a quarter past one,_  
_I'm not close to done,_  
_Hickory-Dickory Do-_

Michael's pen ceased scrawling across the paper and took flight as Michael threw it somewhere else in the dorm. It clattered next to his roommate's bed, followed by a soft snore, and the sleeping figure adjusted his position. Michael glanced at him briefly before getting up and grabbing the pen and, after one last look, returning to his desk. He stared at the paper he'd just written on.

_You're a fucking English major._

_Poetry is what you're here for._

_Is that the best you can do?_

Thoughts bounce around in his head for a moment before he crumples up the paper and violently dunks it into the trash can.

_You're a mess, Michael Jones._

He's about to delve into more self pity and get a beer from the mini fridge, but before he can his roommate stirs again. He flips onto his stomach so his sleeping face is aiming right at Michael, and one bare foot dangles limply off the bed from under the covers. Michael almost turns the chair around, but, with the barest hint of a smile, he hears another snore and gazes fondly at the body lying in bed. A minute later he's too lost in his own thoughts to realize that the other man has woken and is peering at him through an eye half open.

"Michael?" The sluggish voice snaps Michael back to reality.

"Yes, Gavin?" He replies quietly.

"Michael, why are you up so late?" Gavin asks, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand as he lifts his torso from the bed. In the back of his head, Michael notes the beauty of Gavin's thick, drowsy dialect and the man's pronunciation of his name.  
Mi-cool.

Michael wheeled his chair across the carpet and right next to Gavin's bed, near the headboard.  
"I have to finish this fucking poem by eight in the morning, and my writer's block is bigger than the fucking Hoover Dam." He spun the chair so the back of his head was resting on the bunk bed's post. His arms hung at his sides as he stared at his desk across the room. The sticky yellow lamplight made the desk seem more wooden, rustic even- who was he kidding? His midterm was not gonna be about a fucking desk.

Gavin had now fully woken and was sprawled out on his back, stretching and yawning.

"Michael, why don't you just get up early instead of torturing yourself all night? You haven't slept properly in like, a week." Gavin scolded him. He sat up against the headboard, his head just a few inches from Michael's. Michael sighed.

"I'm aware, Gavin. I write better in the night okay?" Michael weakly defended himself. He spun the chair yet again, putting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together, fully facing Gavin. Gavin looked (rightfully) unimpressed.

"Yeah, right, Michael." There it was again: _Mi-cool_. "Just because you're working hard doesn't mean you have to sacrifice your well being for it." He brought a hand out from the covers and pressed it on Michael's hunched shoulder. Michael hung his head between his arms, using one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose above his glasses. He couldn't bring himself to shake Gavin's hand off.

"Again, Gav, I'm aware. But I can't sleep now, I need to crunch this fucking thing out in seven hours and I can't afford to lose any more time than I already have. I need to keep something on my mind, y'know?" He tried again. He looked up at Gavin with red rimmed, tired eyes.

Gavin fought the urge to run his slender fingers through Michael's auburn curls. He felt bad. Michael was easily one of the best poets on campus, but the man never seemed to appreciate himself enough to acknowledge it. There was a very fine line between extreme modesty and outright low self-esteem, and Gavin hardly knew which side of it Michael was walking on tonight. Still, he felt sorry for his best friend.

An idea struck him.

"I'll help you!" He blurted out, with a sleepy eagerness in his sea green eyes.

Michael blinked. "What?"

"I'll stay up with you, and I'll help you write your poem." Gavin trailed his hand down Michael's forearm quickly, fingers lingering a little longer before finally retreating back into his blanket. Michael still hadn't said anything. Gavin tried again.

"You can teach me about poetry, and you'll be able to rest at the same time, all the while dodging your writer's block and spitballing ideas!"

Michael had to admit, it wasn't a bad plan. And he had been missing out on time with Gavin this past week, thanks to midterms and classes in general. Maybe a few minutes with his Brit would do him good.

_But wait, doesn't Gavin-_

His mouth caught up to his thoughts.

"Gav! You have a lecture at 8:30 tomorrow! Go back to sleep!" Michael raised his voice a tad. Gavin was not about to miss class because his stupid ass couldn't come up with an idea for one fucking poem.

Gavin rolled his eyes. "Michael, it doesn't matter that much. What's one missed class? And besides, I really want to help you. It'd be fun." The perpetual cheeriness that only Gavin could radiate spread to Michael like an infection, and he found himself smiling.

_Man, do I give in easy._

"Fine, but only for a little while, okay?" Michael said as he rose from his seat. He grabbed his notebook, journal, pen, and textbook from his desk and brought them to the bed. Gavin scooted deeper into the bunk so his shoulder was against the wall, and silently patted the spot next to him. Michael sighed and climbed in, kicking the covers over his legs and resting his back against the headboard like Gavin's. Their shoulders grazed lightly.

A beat of silence passed. "Begin." Said Gavin.

Michael scoffed.

"Teach, Professor Jones. What is poetry?" Gavin said happily. He pulled his knees out of the blanket and up to his chest to add to the excited five year old vibe he was giving off. Michael chuckled.

"I can't just start, Gavin. It's... It's hard to explain. It's much more complicated than everyone thinks. Most fucking idiots out there just think it's as easy as rhyme and rhythm, but it's not- it's- I-" Michael let out an exasperated sigh. "It's _deeper_."

"Deeper? How so?" Gavin was doing his best to keep the conversation going, and Michael currently loved and hated him for it.

"I've never been asked this kind of question before," Michael continued, frustrated. "It's ironic that the poet is at a loss for words." He looked straight ahead and chuckled again. A single dimple appeared on his cheek, and Gavin poked it lightly.

"Try to explain it in the simplest way possible, Michael." Gavin looked at him encouragingly, placing a hand on his knee now. Michael shifted his leg, though only a little, but Gavin noticed anyways and withdrew.

"It's like, the words are created and placed in such and such fashion in order to like... invoke something in the reader, yeah? Like when you read it, it should flow through your brain just as easily as blood in your veins, and at the end it should resonate. Like the words almost echo inside of you, like hitting a bell and hearing- no, feeling- it ring." Michael said, softly. He looked at Gavin.

Gavin looked slightly confused, very interested, and also tired. Mostly tired.

"Forget it," Michael shook his head, very faint annoyance in his features, and began to get up. "You don't get it. Go back to sleep, Gavvy."

"No Michael!" Gavin's fingers immediately wrapped around Michael's bicep and pulled him back down. "I do get it! I feel the same with cinematography, y'know? Like sometimes the most beautiful thing about a program or film is that it flows, flows so bloody well, and like when the camera moves you feel like you move with it, but you also feel like it moves you, too, and just the way you capture human emotion and reaction, being able to record how people exist and feel, it's incredible!" Gavin squeezed out in one breath.

Michael stared at him with slightly widened eyes. If Michael was being honest, he had had no clue Gavin could be so emotional about... Well, anything. It wasn't exactly the nicest analysis, but Gavin just seemed like a more carefree, go with the flow type, not really an attachment kind of guy. But here he was, confessing his affection for his major like he's some kind of Shakespeare character. Michael suddenly felt a rush of fondness for his best friend.

"Gav, that was... That was amazing." Michael muttered. He leaned a little closer, so their shoulders were pressed together. "I didn't know you could be so romantic." His face split into a grin, and Gavin hit him lightly on the chest.

"Shut up, you knob. Maybe I should be the poet, huh?" He said with a smirk. Michael laughed.

"Please. You wouldn't get one word out onto the paper, idiot."

"How's that poem coming along, Michael?" Gavin said confidently.

Michael spluttered indignantly, before letting go a quiet "fuck you". Gavin took the pen and paper from the bed and began writing. Thirty seconds later Michael was staring at fresh ink and Gavin's cocky face.

"Poetry." Gavin stated, matter of factly.

 _Roses are Red,_  
_Violets are Blue._  
_Gavin is Lovely._  
_Hey_ _Michael, Fuck You_.

Michael couldn't help the smile, but he did manage, "I hate you."

Gavin only continued to smirk. Michael threw the notebook at his face and picked up the textbook, ignoring Gavin's squeak.

"So you wanna learn poetry, Dickie Bitch?" He opened to a random page.

"Indeed, Michael, indeed." Was the reply. Gavin settled back against the headboard, this time fully pressing against Michael and leaning in close. To see the poem clearly, of course.

Michael began to read aloud, slow, quiet, and in rhythm with his heartbeat.

" _Whenever Richard Cory went down town,_  
_We people on the pavement looked at him:_  
_He was a gentleman from sole to crown,  
Clean favored, and imperially slim._

 _And he was always quietly arrayed,_  
_And he was always human when he talked;_  
_But still he fluttered pulses when he said,  
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked._

 _And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—_  
_And admirably schooled in every grace:_  
_In fine, we thought that he was everything  
To make us wish that we were in his place._

 _So on we worked, and waited for the light,_  
_And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;_  
_And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,  
Went home and put a bullet through his head._ "

Michael let the words ring for a moment before turning to Gavin, expectantly.

"So?" A long silence.

"I think I get it," Gavin began, "s'like everyone thought Cory had a great life, and they were too ignorant to see that having everything doesn't mean everything's okay." He looked at Michael, who had now blanked his face. "Right?" He said quietly.

"Gav... That's great. I mean, not exact but like really close. Here," Michael said. He put the book between them on top of their legs, and Gavin scooted closer. He slipped his slim hand in between Michael's arm and torso and casually left his fingers draped over his arm, just below the wrist. Michael either ignored him or didn't mind the contact as he pointed to the page and began explaining.

"See, the poem is told from the point of view people on the pavement, like the everyday poor people who think Cory is so amazing. But the cool part is right here," he poked the page firmly, "where it says 'So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread'. It's like, they wait for the light, as if Cory's lifestyle is some sort of salvation that they want to find. And they went without meat, and cursed the bread, like they're hungry enough being poor without any meat, but they curse their bread too, because they're ungrateful and greedy. And the last line, well, that's the best part. See, after they complain about their lives, they tell you that he killed himself. But if you read it in the right way it sounds-"

"Resentful!" Gavin's eyes lit up. "Like, they're here suffering with a shite life, and Cory had everything, but he had the balls to bitch out and off himself. And because they're so ignorant, they don't see why he would even want to try when he has that 'light' you were talking about."

"Nailed it, Gavvers." Michael held up his hand with a huge smile, and Gavin high fived him enthusiastically. "Like, right on. That's my interpretation of it, anyways. Realism is a really cool idea to work with, especially when paired with the modernist movement in America. But interpretation is like, way easier than writing poetry. It's so stressful-" Gavin let his other hand slide up into Michael's palm and intertwine their fingers, and something about Michael's endearing smile, or the way he lit up when he talked on and on about what he loved, or the way his freckles danced across his cheeks, or the way his dimples popped in and out of existence, or the way his curls shimmered in the low lamplight, or the way his laugh started as small thunder and built up to cackling lighting, or his everything-

Gavin said it effortlessly, without a second thought.

"I love you, Michael."

Gavin's eyes immediately widened to platter-size. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a tiny squeak. When he tried again, no sound left his throat. He pulled his hand away from Michael's and shrunk to the deepest end of the bunk, against the wall. All he could do was stare at Michael and wait.

Michael, needless to say, had gone a few shades paler and held in a breath. His face was completely blank, and he stared straight ahead. Despite his stillness physically, his mind was moving at a mile a minute.

_Gavin... Loves me?_

_How long?_

_Does anyone else know?_

_Why?_

As far as Michael knew, his and Gavin's friendship had always been purely platonic. Sure, there were jokes and stories and even fucking limericks, courtesy of Geoff, but Michael had always thought it was all for entertainment.

But the way Gavin is looking at him now, desperate and eager and something else, something deeper- it all seemed almost laughable. Almost.

"Uh."

_Nice, Jones, nice. Keep 'em coming. Seriously. Conversationalist of the year right here. I should be a politician with speech like that._

Michael slowly turned his head to look at Gavin. Gavin who loves him. Gavin who wants nothing more than him. Gavin who feels for him.

How does Michael feel? On some level, he must love Gavin right back. Beneath the jokes and stories, there must be something, because Michael can recall the fondness and affection he aimed at Gavin, especially when he was down or lonely or hit hard with writer's block (just like tonight) and Gavin, fucking Gavin, was always there for him, always wanting to please him.

_Gavin existing pleases me enough. I could never know who he is, what he sounds like, what he looks like even- as long as he's alive, and I can feel for him the way he's always felt for me._

_My turn._

"Can I kiss you?" The longest staring contest ever was finally lost by Gavin, who rapidly blinked a few times before registering what Michael had said.

"I... If you want to, I wouldn't mind."

Michael smiled and wound his fingers around Gavin's arms, pulling him over so he was on his knees in front of Michael. Gavin stared at Michael with the most innocent and sincere expression of want and that was more than enough to get Michael to come to his senses. He pulled Gavin toward him gently, soft hands running over smooth skin. Gavin looked so _real_ up close, with his stubble and ambiguously colored eyes. He caressed Gavin's cheek and leaned in until they were just centimeters apart, breathing each other's air, until-

Michael kissed him. It was long, slow, and dangerously cautious, but Gavin's mind was imploding in inexplicable happiness.

_I'm kissing Michael._

_I've dreamed about this for months, and it's actually happening._

_What did I do to deserve this?_

And Michael, well, Michael wasn't exactly tranquil either. If Gavin's mind was imploding, Michael's was a collision of two black holes. Seriously. The way Gavin was kissing him was bending space-time.

_God, I'm so stupid._

_I could've been doing this for months._

_I need to tell him-_

Michael finally, finally pulls away for air. He takes a deep breath as Gavin looks at him, still kneeling in front of him. Gavin smiles at him, and that makes the comparison complete.

"You're the sun." He states, matter of factly, like its something everyone knows because it's a given. Gavin can only smile wider and fall forward into Michael, and Michael sure as fuck knows what he's writing his poem on now.

"Is that poetry I hear?" Gavin said teasingly. He began to sprinkle kisses all over Michael's neck and lips and jawline as he watched the gears whir in his head.

"Something like that." Michael smiled against Gavin's mouth before slowly removing him from his nest in Michael's lap. He rises out of the bunk, after about five million more kisses from Gavin and one dangerous attempt to yank Michael back to the warm bed. Michael can't stop giggling the whole time until Gavin finally settles back down with a grunt of disapproval.

  
"I have to write it down before I forget, Gav. Tomorrow after classes, I swear, we will have the coolest fucking first date ever. Okay?" Gavin nodded sleepily, still silent. Michael kissed his forehead sweetly before heading over to the desk.

_You're the sun._

He repeated it in his head like a Gregorian Chant as his pen glided across the paper in practiced motion.

Gavin's last sight was Michael hunched over under the lamp at two o' clock in the morning as reality began to catch up to him. He closed his eyes, and his last thought, though painfully small, sparked a feeling of insecurity.

 _He never said it back_.

__________________________________

The next morning, Gavin woke at nine, missing his lecture completely. The first thing he saw in the empty dorm was a small slip of paper taped to the desk across the room. He stood up, yawned, and walked over to it. He read it over three times with a smile big enough to outshine the sun.

 _Roses are red,_  
_Violets are blue,_  
_You should already know,  
But I love you too._

 

**Author's Note:**

> that poem "Richard Corey" is by Edwin Arlington Robinson, for those of you who were wondering. Maybe I'll see some of you in my next fic, if you enjoyed this one.  
> -CT


End file.
